They were scattered all around him, the stones and the broken chunks of rock; but he had had to think in terms of a throwing weapon before becoming fully aware of them. The hoofbeats grew louder as his hand groped for a piece of rock, found one the size of a man’s fist, jagged and uneven, and the next moment he was standing, seeing the Mimbre low on the horse, guiding it with his knees, raising the carbine, using both hands and pressing his face close to the breech-
Bowen threw the rock and went down. The carbine exploded over his head and he was up again as the Mimbre looked back, circling toward the others. He had thrown too quickly.
He saw the Mimbre who had just made the pass pointing toward him and a faint sound drifted across the openness. Now they’ve got something to laugh about, Bowen thought. Something to make the game better. Well, come on. If you think it’s funny keep trying.
He went down, his hand searching for another rock as the fifth Mimbre circled wide to make his pass. But this time, Bowen continued to think, we’ll do it different. We’ll make up new rules.
He found the right-sized rock, then moved over and away from the boulders almost five yards. Here there was less protection, but enough low brush to cover him. The rider would not see him until he was directly in front of the brush, and then it would be too late to do anything about it.
Now he could hear the Mimbre coming, the quick sound of the hoofs growing steadily. Bowen crouched, judging the distance by the sound. Almost to the rocks, getting ready, bringing up the carbine. Now. He was firing as Bowen came up, rushing past as Bowen hurled the rock, and starting to look back as it caught him in the face.
The Mimbre went back out of the saddle and Bowen was through the brush running for the carbine, picking it up and swinging it suddenly as the Mimbre started to rise. The stock caught the Mimbre’s head and he crumpled. Bowen was on him, pulling the bandoleer up over his shoulder; but firing broke suddenly from the other slope and he knew there wasn’t time to take the belt. His fingers snatched cartridges from the belt loops and again he was running for the rocks. The firing stopped abruptly as he reached cover.
He looked out again, pushing a cartridge into the breech of the Springfield, then placed the other four cartridges he had taken on a shelf of level rock next to him.
It wasn’t even worth it, Bowen thought. Five shots. That’s all you’ve got. What do you do with five bullets against eleven. No, against ten. He looked over to the motionless form of the Mimbre. You should’ve dragged him back with you. Then you’d have the whole belt…And you’d have a sore-headed ’Pache to watch.
No, it wouldn’t have made any difference. What would you do, shoot all eleven of them? You don’t run away from jail because you shouldn’t be there in the first place, but kill eleven men doing it. Then you might just as well stay in prison.
You’re all mixed up, aren’t you? You got yourself into something and now you don’t know how to get out.
Maybe scatter them and make a run for it, he thought then. He rolled to his side to study the pine stands up on the hill behind him. The trees were green-brown and motionless against the sky.
Only it’s a long run for not knowing what’s on the other side. What do you do once you get up there?
Then you think of something else. Just take it a step at a time…you’re not going any faster than that.
He rolled to his stomach again and now saw one of the Mimbres leave the band. This one did not move off as if to make a circle, but came directly toward the rocks.
The brave one, Bowen thought, pressing his cheek against the smooth stock of the carbine. Well, give the brave one something to think about.
He squeezed the trigger and the horse went down. The Mimbre rolled clear and ran back to the others. Then, as he reached them, Bowen fired again. Another horse stumbled, sinking to its knees, and the Mimbres were suddenly wheeling their mounts to move out of range.
And as they scattered in momentary confusion, Bowen moved. He snatched up the cartridges and turned from the rocks, running now for the nearest stand of pines that straggled down the slope behind him. Fifty yards to the trees…then the beating of hoofs bearing down on him. He was loading the Springfield as he ran-dropped a cartridge-knew that he was holding only two more in his hand, and jammed one of them into the breech.
He came around, dropping to one knee, and brought up the Springfield. But the Mimbre veered off to the left, aiming his carbine at Bowen with one hand and both fired at the same time, both shots going wide.
Bowen hesitated. He saw the Mimbre rein a tight circle, starting to reload, and then he was running for the Mimbre-seeing the sudden look of surprise on the Mimbre’s face, now seeing the horse jump as it was spurred forward-then dodging the horse’s head he swung the carbine up at its rider.
The Mimbre swayed in the saddle, dropping his carbine, but he did not go down. He came back at Bowen to run him down, but again Bowen dodged aside. This time he released the carbine as he swung it and the stock slammed against the Mimbre’s head knocking him from the saddle.
The horse came about, feeling its rider go off, slowed to a trot, then a walk-then suddenly broke into a run as Bowen swung up on the saddle and pointed the horse slanting across the slope back toward the long sweep of meadow. But he covered barely a hundred yards before the Mimbres were all around him. He reined abruptly to come back on them, but they closed in before he could break through and he was forced to a stop with seven Springfields leveled at him.
The Mimbres dismounted. One of them, on Bowen’s left, reached up to drag him from the saddle. Bowen’s fist chopped at him viciously and he staggered back. A carbine barrel jabbed into Bowen’s right side. He turned his body, swinging a fist backhanded at the Springfield, and as he did a rawhide loop dropped over his head, and before he could free himself of it the line tightened and he was dragged from the saddle.
The Mimbres swarmed over him and the one Bowen had struck a moment before swung down at him with the butt of his carbine. Bowen rolled and the stock missed him. The Mimbre brought back the carbine to swing it again, but one abrupt, clearly spoken word in the Mimbreño dialect stopped him.
Bowen came to his feet. He looked for the Mimbre who had spoken and saw Salvaje then standing in front of his horse, the reins over his shoulder and hanging down in front of him. He spoke again and the Mimbres near Bowen stepped back from him.
Salvaje continued to stare at Bowen, openly appraising him and for a moment the hint of a smile softened his mouth. He nodded his head then, slowly, as if to say: It was a good game and it is too bad it had to end-
At one time, the convict camp at Five Shadows had been a cavalry station-founded during the raiding days of Cochise and garrisoned until Geronimo and his renegade Chiricahuas were sent off to Florida. Officers’ row, the troopers’ barracks, and even the log stable-forming a U around three sides of the quadrangle-were constructed of a double thickness of adobe brick, for although Five Shadows had been designated a temporary station, there was always a feeling of permanency about the Apache campaigns.
It had been deserted for almost seven years when Frank Renda began using it as a camp for his road construction operation.
In appearance, the camp was much the same as it had always been-even to the windmill and the half dozen Apache jacales off beyond the stable where the Mimbreño trackers and their families lived. But now a ten-foot barbed wire fence-three feet of it angled to the inside-enclosed the compound. Over the gate a sign read: